Probing Memories
by RosemarieCraig
Summary: Teen!Sherlock tries to remember the events that led to him lying on his bedroom floor with blood running down his back. Abuse Warning Continued due to popular demand, now complete!
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock woke up on the floor on his bedroom, disorientated and disproportionately angry for so early in the morning. He slowly probed at his memories of the night before. He remembered Mycroft yelling at him. Mycroft was always yelling though, constantly annoyed at his seventeen year old brother. Sherlock moved his left arm and realised hat it hurt. He tried other movements, head, legs, fingers, back, and found that almost every inch of his body ached. Prodding his memory banks, he noted the heroin he'd done the night before, and felt the remnants of the drugs clouding his mind. It was so frustrating, to be lying on the floor and to have no idea how he got there. Sherlock was used to being able to work things out so quickly that not knowing was foreign to him. _How_ did normal people _manage_? Sherlock put his hand up to his face and felt a bruise on his cheek. It had a familiar size and shape, the fist belonged to Bert Holmes. Sherlock decided to skip over his beating in his search for memories. It wasn't important. His hand continued to explore his body. His long fingers probed into his bruised rib, a cut on his forehead, a twisted ankle and a fractured big toe. No matter, no lasting damage. Sherlock continued to press his mind. Mycroft had yelled. What about? Drugs? No, they'd had that conversation too many times for him to lose his composure. Drinking? Again, too many times. Perhaps a better question: what had he done to earn his beating? Most likely possibility would be an experiment gone wrong, which might also excuse his reeling brain. But as he looked around he didn't see any signs of burnt carpet or blue smoke. So not an experiment. Or... he remembered the boy. John Watson. The blonde boy who had been him his bedroom. Who had kissed him. Yes. That would warrant Mycroft's anger and Father's beating. It all rushed back to him, the elation at the soft, passionate kiss, the wonder of the other boy's flesh pressed tightly against his own. The fear as his bedroom door slammed open. The pain as the fists landed over and over onto his body, as John yelled at his father to stop. The humiliation as John ran away when Sherlock stopped fighting back. The disgusting feeling of shame and pain as his father took off his belt. And afterwards, as Mycroft had come into his room and knelt beside him as he bled. As he told him everything. And as Mycroft looked at him with such disgust, such anger. And as he shouted, echoing their Father's words- you're a freak. Sherlock rolled over and vomited onto his bedroom carpet, the pain, sadness, fear and shame bearing down on him hard. No one would ever kiss him like that again. No one except his John.


	2. Chapter 2

Two Days Before  
The two boys stood opposite each other in a ring of other teenagers. The others were shouting and screaming, caught up in the frenzy of the fight. The boys circled each other, neither one wanting to deal the first punch. Sherlock had been blocking the chant of 'fight, fight, fight' from his mind. It was unimportant. The important thing was to figure out who this other boy was and how to get out of the fight without getting hurt too badly.  
"Go on John, sock him one!" a few voices cried out. John. Sherlock knew the name, and placed the boy's face. He was the doctor's son. The doctor who had let Sherlock go home covered in burns and bruises and scars, and had done nothing about it. The doctor who had actually witnessed one of the spectacular punishments inflicted on Mycroft that had left him unable to sit properly for weeks. It was eight years ago, when Mycroft had been sixteen, and their father had whipped him with a length of hosepipe for only getting 97% on an exam. It had been during a dinner party, when the doctor and one of their father's other friends had been there. Sherlock felt his stomach fill with hatred and anger towards the boy whose father had ignored their pain.  
"This is your last chance to back out, Holmes!" John shouted "Apologise for what you said about my sister, and then you can get away"  
"It was true. I'm not apologising for telling the truth" Sherlock spat. He was a good two inches taller than his adversary, and he had the power of deduction on his side. He could tell when and where each strike would come from and where best to deliver one. He would win, although not without a few injuries to add to the list.  
"Apologise, Holmes! I don't want to hurt you" John said. Sherlock could tell he was telling the truth. He had kind eyes. Sherlock took a deep breath and allowed the anger, humiliation and pain he had suffered in the last few weeks and threw it all into three carefully chosen punches, and watched in slow motion as John slammed to the floor. The ring was silent. No one had been cheering for Sherlock. The boy wiped the sweat from his forehead and pushed his way out of the ring, leaving John propping himself up on his elbows, starting at minutes later, Sherlock was sitting on a bench in the park, nursing his grazed knuckles and thinking about the boy he had fought. He had been handsome. Sherlock had found him almost appealing, a sensation he had never had with girls, despite Mycroft's laughing assurances that it would come. He and felt almost...attracted to the blonde boy.  
"Hey" a voice said from behind him, shocking Sherlock out of his thoughts.  
"Hi" he said, turning to find John directly behind him.  
"Do you want to get a drink?" John asked calmly. Sherlock stood up quickly, eager to take him up on his offer. He banged his knee on the bench and practically blushed. John smiled. The boys walked in silence to a coffee shop down the road from the park and ordered. Sherlock had a double espresso and John had a decaf latte. Sitting down by the window, John grinned at Sherlock. He had a small bruise forming under his eye.  
"Sorry about that"  
"No worries. Pressured situation and all that. You've got some mean fighting skills"  
"Thanks"  
"It was a bit of a relief actually. If we'd actually fought and I'd lost, that would have been humiliating! But you just beat me without even letting me fight. It turned out pretty good for me actually"  
"I'm glad"  
"I mean it about apologising for what you said, though"  
"When did telling the truth become a crime?"  
"It didn't. But you said it in a horrible way. In front of everyone"  
"It's not my fault she's gay"  
"No, but you didn't say gay. You said a horrible word, and I didn't like to hear it applied to my sister"  
"It's what my father calls them"  
"Oh, hi, I didn't realise I was talking to Sherlock's father" John mocked, his eyebrows raised "Just because your dad says it, doesn't make it okay to say it to me"  
"Okay then, sorry" Sherlock ripped the word from him. He hated to apologise.  
"Thank you. Now then, I don't think you should come back to school for a couple of days. When I left, everyone was baying for your blood"  
"Thanks for the tip" he said surlily  
"Want to come round to mine for tea?"  
"What, to your house?" Sherlock said, surprised. In all his life, he'd never been asked to someone's house. Never.  
"Well yeah"  
"I- okay"  
"Cool. Come on then" the boys got up and began to walk to John's house. As they went, they talked easily. Sherlock found himself actually enjoying the company of another human being. They went deeper into the city and entered a council estate. A large 60s concrete block of flats towered over them. John typed in the code on a key pad and they went inside. Sherlock wrinkled his nose as the stench of decay hit them. They walked up four flights of stairs and John knocked on the door of 412 A. A plump woman answered him and embraced him quickly before turning to Sherlock.  
"Hello dear, are you a friend of John's?"  
"I guess so"  
"Come on in then. Your Dad couldn't make it home, John, he's on call. I'm just sorting baked beans" she looked proud of her cooking prowess. John kissed her cheek and went inside. Sherlock took a deep breath. It was far flung from his father's mansion, but as he went in, he felt the warmth and family atmosphere that hadn't been in his house since his mother died. At least he wouldn't have to see John's father. "What's your name then dear?"  
"Sherlock Holmes"


	3. Chapter 3

The next night, the boys went to see a film. It was terrifying. Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off the screen, and John kept gasping and slamming his eyes shut. At a particularly horrific moment, John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand, squeezing tightly. The other boy hardly noticed, and squeezed back, sharing his own terror. When the credits finally stared to roll, they jumped up quickly and almost ran from the cinema.  
"I have never seen anything that scary in my whole life" John burst out, almost giggling with the release of adrenaline. Sherlock thought suddenly of his father, a much more terrifying being than the monster in the film.  
"Me either" he said quickly, trying to cover up his thought. John hadn't noticed his diversion, wrapped up in thoughts.  
"Know what? I invited you for dinner last night. My sister's fighting with my parents today, it's like a war-zone in there. Can I come to yours?"  
"Um-" Sherlock had no idea what the response should be. He'd never had anyone for dinner. He didn't know how his father would react. He didn't know if it was allowed.  
"Go on! I want to meet your family! You met my mum and dad, and Harry. I want to meet your parents, and... Mycroft, right?"  
"My Mother died, five years ago. But yes, my brother's name is Mycroft"  
"Sorry mate. Come on, let me come!"  
"I... Okay" Sherlock turned and began to walk home, a little faster than the shorter boy could go.  
"Wait up, Sherlock!" John said, moving into a hopping gait beside him. The boys walked in silence, Sherlock trying to come up with the most likely reaction from his father. Either sending John away and punishing him, or allowing John to stay to keep face and punishing him later. Most likely the second option. They arrived, finally, outside the Holmes Estate, a sprawling mansion inside hundreds of acres of wood and open land. Sherlock led an astonished John up the drive, ignoring the front door and, as he always did, heading for the servant's entrance. Keats, the butler, met him at the door.  
"Good evening, Master Holmes" he said, "And Master..."  
"This is John Watson. John, this is Keats. He's the butler. John is coming to dinner"  
"I'll see to it, Master Holmes"  
"What kind of mood is my father in?" Sherlock asked quietly  
"He seems angry, sir, but he has not asked for brandy yet"  
"Okay, okay. I'll see you soon, Keats"  
"Dinner at seven, sir" the old man said. His rotund stomach made his waistcoat stretch, his carefully kept moustache greying like his hair.  
"Thanks. Can you tell Father that John is here?"  
"Of course sir" Sherlock led John up the stairs into the main house. John stared at the ceiling. It looked like the Sistine Chapel, it's high arches painted wonderfully, chandeliers handing from the stone. Columns stood tall around the front room, works of art in themselves. Sherlock ignored it all; John couldn't take his eyes off it. They went up a flight of swooping stairs, and another, and another, until they got to a small back stone staircase, which led to Sherlock and Mycroft's bedrooms. Sherlock opened his own door and they entered a small, stone room, a lot like a monk's dormitory, with a bed in one corner, a wardrobe in another, a desk in the third and an overflowing book case in another. The room was sparse, almost un-lived in, except that it was unmistakably Sherlock's. John sat, slumped on his friend's bed.  
"I can't believe you live somewhere like this! I didn't even know these places still existed"  
"I don't like it, I can't wait to leave"  
"Why the hell would you want to leave?"  
"I'm not happy here"  
"How can you not be happy! Everything I ever wanted is in here. You're loaded, man"  
"So? Money is not everything"  
"I know, but still, it helps" John said ruefully. Sherlock sat down next to him.  
"Would money make your family stop fighting? Your sister attracted to men? Your parents love you more?"  
"Well, no. But it would make things easier. It would help"  
"I don't think it would. It doesn't help us" Sherlock got up off the bed and grabbed a pack of playing cards. "Let me show you a magic trick"


	4. Chapter 4

By the time the gong rang out for dinner, Sherlock had successfully set his bed on fire, lost £9 behind John's ears, thrown his cards all over the floor and kicked his shoe out of the window. John had been close to hysterics the whole afternoon. But he stopped laughing when the gong rang. Sherlock had gone pale.  
"Hey, are you alright?" John asked  
"I'm fine" the other boy said stiffly. They headed down stairs, and Sherlock led John into a massive dining room, with a rectangular table stretching down it. The table sat twenty-four, but onto four places were set. One at either end and two in the middle, directly opposite each other. Keats, the butler, pulled out the chair at the head of the table for John, and Jack, the first footman, pulled centre right for Sherlock. The boys sat in silence, John taking in the majestic high roof, Sherlock twisting his napkin in his lap. After thirty seconds that seemed like a life time, Sherlock's father came in, sat down at the head and was followed after a few moments by Mycroft.  
"Mycroft, you're late"  
"Sorry Father"  
"Sit" Mycroft sat down opposite his younger brother "So, Sherlock, you have brought home a... friend"  
"Yes Father. This is John Watson"  
"Good evening, Mr Watson"  
"Good evening Mr Holmes" John stammered slightly. He was not used to such formality. He glanced at the Holmes brothers. They seemed to be talking with their eyes. Sherlock kept making minute grimaces, glancing towards John. Mycroft looked angry, but kept his face blank.  
"Where did you meet my son?"  
"At school. We were fighting, and he beat me. It was interesting"  
"Sherlock, you were fighting? With school boys?" the man sounded angry  
"Yes Father, I'm sorry Father" he said, without taking his eyes off Mycroft.  
"Anyway-" John tried to skirt over the behaviour. He hadn't meant to get his friend in trouble. He was intimidated by the man at the other end of the table.  
"Mr Watson, as I'm sure you know, my son is... Well, a little strange" he said it as though he was doing his son a favour by not calling him a freak.  
"No, I don't think so" John said brightly. Mycroft and Sherlock whipped up to stare at him. It was a double shock. 1) someone didn't think Sherlock was a freak, 2) someone just contradicted their father.  
"What?" the man in question said  
"I don't think Sherlock's weird" and there was silence. No one spoke again until after they had finished their pudding. Then Mr Holmes got up and left to have his port. Mycroft and Sherlock stood up.  
"Little brother, you need to be careful. He's in a bad mood" Mycroft warned in a quiet voice.  
"I always am"  
"No, you're not. Just try not to disturb him, okay?"  
"Fine. You're dull, Croft. You used to be interesting" Sherlock said, smiling slightly from the corner of his mouth. John followed Sherlock out of the room and up to his bedroom. "So. That was my family. Not quite as... Exciting as yours"  
"Your dad seemed... a bit weird" John said hesitantly. Sherlock began to laugh. "What? What's funny?"  
"You defied him at dinner! And now you're calling him weird!"  
"I didn't-"  
"My father hasn't been contradicted on anything since he was seventeen. The one time I tried, he-" Sherlock broke off. It was bad enough having John see his home, another thing entirely for him to know about the visits to John's own father. Visits where their wounds were patched up, their bones set, their cuts given stitches. No, John didn't need to know about that.  
"He what?"  
"Never mind. John?"  
"Yeah?"  
"You know I do a lot of experiments?"  
"Yeah"  
"I've been wondering about something for a while. Actually, since I met you"  
"What?"  
"I've been wondering... about heart rates during physical encounters" Sherlock said frantically, trying to work out a plausible experiment for what he was asking.  
"I- I'm not gay, Sherlock. Harry's the gay one. One family can't have two, it's not right"  
"I'm not gay either" Sherlock said quickly "It's just an experiment"  
"To be honest, I've been thinking about that too, just a little"  
"Really? Well then. Maybe we should..."  
"Just once?"  
"Just once" Sherlock confirmed  
"Okay then" John inched forward, and Sherlock met him in the middle. Their lips brushed together, their breath mingling hot and moist in the tiny gap between them. John pushed ever so slightly forward, and they were kissing. It lasted simply for a few seconds, and then Sherlock pushed harder, and John ground his lips into Sherlock's, and they grabbed each others's hair, John's hand entwining in the other boy's curls, and they exploded with pent up lust, attraction and fear. Without either of them registering the sound, the door opened. They rolled over into the bed, pushing harder against each other.  
"What the hell is going on here?" Sherlock's father bellowed. The boys fell promptly off the bed and onto the floor, John landing on top, Sherlock whimpering in fear. "Sherlock, stand up!"  
"I- I'm sorry, Father, I didn't mean-"  
"Shut up" he shouted, coving the small space between himself and his son in a heart beat, pulling back his fist and releasing it like a cannon at the gangly boy's face. Sherlock, caught by surprise, stumbled backwards into the wall. The fist hit again, and this time John yelped in shock and sympathy when the blow hit his friend's chest.  
"Stop it!" John cried. The fist landed again and again, on Sherlock's face and stomach, until John was sobbing, Sherlock was propped up against the wall, and his father was beet red. "You have to stop, you're hurting him!"  
"Shut up! Leave this house. I never want to see you again" the man roared. John scurried out of the room, terrified for his friend, glancing back to see Sherlock fall to the floor and jerk away from a kick to the stomach. Tears flowing down his cheeks, he ran down the takes and out of the door. He had caused his friend pain. And God knows he'd enjoyed that was up against the wall, being shoved further in with every kick to his bruising stomach. He watched, dazed from the blows to the head, as his father removed his belt. He felt the thick leather smack down across his back and left arm, and he cried out. It came down again and again, all over his body. No inch of flesh was spared. He was nearly crying, the agony, the fear, the shame and the desperation hitting him as hard as the belt. Eventually, his father kicked him in the face again and left, slamming the door. Sherlock lay on the ground, resting his head against the wall, sobbing. He never cried. After what seemed like forever, Mycroft entered. He looked as though he'd been punched a few times too.  
"Hey, Lock. You okay?"  
"No! No, I'm not okay!" Sherlock choked on the words, bile coming up into his throat, tears spilling down his bruised cheeks.  
"What's wrong? What happened" Mycroft sounded concerned, frightened  
"Father... It really hurt, Croft. I felt like I was on fire"  
"What set him off?" the much older boy knelt down beside his brother and stroked his curly hair. Sherlock shut his eyes.  
"He found me kissing John" he blurted out. Mycroft stood up, going pale.  
"What? How could you be so stupid?" he shouted "You're a right moron, sometimes! How could you do that?"  
"It felt... I felt good" Sherlock admitted. Mycroft grabbed a fist full of the boy's t-shirt and yanked him up a little  
"You little freak, Sherlock Homes! You disgust me! You deserve everything Father gave you! You got off light!"  
"But... I..."  
"But nothing! It's bad enough to kiss girls, boys are off limits! How could you even think of doing that? You're disgusting!"  
"But Croft, I-"  
"Shut up. You're a freak, just like Father said" Mycroft dropped his brother to the floor and walked out, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock cried. He reached under his bed to take a syringe of heroin. He injected the drug into his arm, his eyes rolling into his head with release. And as the world went black, he died a little inside. Because John was never coming back.


End file.
